A/N: This is, not what I expected to do with the prompt. But I like it and I'll take any opportunity to write something where everyone's alive


He really doesn't recognize her at first. First because he doesn't really memorize the exact faces of all opposing chasers, and second because he's in a lonely, hole in the wall, muggle pub trying to have a quiet drink and eat some greasy food.

So he's a bit more grumpy than he should be when a red headed woman even angry Harry will admit is gorgeous claims the seat across from him. "Mind a bit of company?"

"I do, a bit," Harry grumbles, finishing off his initial drink and pulling the replacement closer. Before this woman can steal it - because he's known her for less than a minute and he'd bet his life-savings she'd take a swig without blinking.

"Don't be a piss-arse," she chides, raising her hand and immediately getting the staff's attention, because of course they'd all had their eyes glued to the temptress of a woman since she sauntered in. Harry on the other hand, had to wait at the bar for ten minutes before anyone deigned to take his order - and he bloody comes here twice a week.

"I'll be whatever I want - a strange woman commandeered my table," Harry shoots back.

She tilts her head and accepts her lager from a passing waitress with a grateful smile. "I'll take strange - it's a family trait. But we're hardly strangers."

"Don't know you from Adam," Harry volleys back simply, fighting to ignore the way his heart thrums like it hasn't in - ever.

"Well you'll know me soon enough," she answers just as calmly, twisting her glass so it makes wet rings on the sticky tabletop.

"What the - " he finally looks at her, really looks at her. The freckled - everything - the bright red hair short and messy around her creamy face, deep, dark eyes boring holes into him. "Weasley."

"Got it in one," she answers, triumphant like getting him to guess her name was a game, "Ginny, in case you didn't know."

"Not Ginevra?" Harry asks spearing a carrot from his side salad.

"God no," Ginny moans, "It's atrocious - someone named Harry would never know."

"I've gotten equal measures of 'you've got your mother's eyes' and 'you're the mirror of your dad' since I was old enough to walk, I'll take a strange name," Harry says, laughing despite himself.

"I suppose there are negatives to having a famous father - and mother," Ginny allows, "Though the benefits are likely moreso than whatever positives have come from having a tragedy of a first name."

"Papa said it made him tough," Harry volunteers, somehow not shocked that he's discussed his family more with this virtual stranger than any woman he's taken on a date in the last three years.

"Ah, Fleamont," Ginny nods knowingly, and for the first time she flushes, "I probably seem like a stalker."

He waves away her nerves, "Nah, it's harder to find someone associated with me who hasn't been on the cover of the Prophet too many times to count. Though I am curious as to how you found me here."

Ginny takes a swallow of her drink. "Sirius Black is a lightweight."

"No he's not," Harry frowns, recalling a particularly raucous seventeenth birthday in a forgotten Potter cottage in the highlands.

"No he's not," Ginny agrees, "But he is a frustrated matchmaker."

"Oh for fu-"

"I'm not here to woo you," Ginny cuts in before Harry can finish his rant (and her convincing denial brings more disappointment than he'd like to admit), "We're the two youngest players to be up for the national team in - a long time."

"So?"

"So, We're inevitably going to be doing lots of press together," she finishes off her drink and waves the ever attentive staff away with a kind smile, "Particularly since the Harpies will be trouncing Puddlemere a week from Friday."

Harry scoffs, "Hardly."

She smirks and Harry's really regretting the lack of wooing taking place.

"I'll see you on the pitch, Potter?" Ginny finally says, standing, "Unless you'd like to get together again - professionally."

And the clarification is like a punch to the gut. But a punch that somehow has him asking, "And what about unprofessionally."

Ginny turns toward him abruptly and he's already thought of four scandalous headlines she could have them running before noon tomorrow. But her gaze isn't angry - it's playful?

She presses a small cream colored card onto the table and slides it toward him. "We'll see if your offer still stands after I trounce you next week."